Untitled
by navigated
Summary: "With a good criminal heart hinting at things best left unknown, the spine of the world is rusting but rusting to gold."


Haine no longer remembered when he first met Badou, what freak circumstance ended up labeling them as 'partners' (which Badou would immediately clarify with "we're not faggots"), maybe he didn't commit it to memory because he just didn't care all that much, maybe it was some bullshit Sylvia Plath, Tibetan Philosophy shit about living in the moment because it might be your last. Haine knew it wasn't going to be his last, he figured he'd be lucky if he ever had a last. He just assumed he didn't care that much.

He knew he could be doing something productive with his time, finding another job, sitting in the church staring at wall, but he decided, instead, to bust down the door to Badou's apartment (which wasn't nearly as impressive as it sounded, the fucking idiot didn't lock his door – Haine wasn't sure Badou even owned a set of keys to his apartment – and really the only 'busting' involved in the whole ordeal was due to the door just being a piece of shit and getting stuck on the door jam. Real classy digs Badou was rocking.) and taking solace in Badou's vomit colored, cigarette burned couch. Haine could very well find his own apartment if he wanted, he just never kept the money he was paid, he didn't see the need. There was nothing he wanted (nothing he wanted, that is, that he could buy), nothing he needed, so he just gave it to Badou, who had an addiction to fuel.

His thoughts, which had been bordering on the melancholy were suddenly interrupted by a slamming from a few floors down, some stumbling and an enraged shout of "FUCK YOU TOO LADY". The stumbling got louder, accompanied by a stubborn mumbling; the door Haine had half destroyed cracked and fell off its hinges as Badou shoved it open. Haine still hadn't rolled over on the couch to see him enter, the smell of second hand smoke was enough to clue him into it. There was a final shout of "I HOPE YOU ROT IN HELL YOU DECREPIT OLD WHORE" and Badou then kicked his broken door, which then proceeded to fall into the hallway.

Haine wasn't surprised (nor did he care) that Badou's rage had now turned on him, and Haine supposed he didn't blame him, breaking into his house and making himself comfortable on his couch, but this was by no means the first time this had happened, and each time he got the same reaction:

"What the fuck are you doing in my house, assclown?"

Haine's reaction on this varied from day to day, sometimes he'd ignore him and roll over on the couch, other days he'd ignore him and stare at Badou, and sometimes he'd ignore him and stare at the nacho cheese colored stain on the wall (Haine wasn't going to question it actually _being_ nacho cheese, he could picture Badou drunk painting on his fucking walls with some Nacho's dug out of a dumpster). Today he decided to go with the 'ignore and stare at him' method.

"Fucking stalker…" Badou mumbled as he wandered into the corner of his apartment which had been deemed 'the kitchen', which was nothing more than a refrigerator that likely came from 1956, a lawn chair and a chair Haine had helped Badou steal from an outdoor café on yet another drunken moment of immaturity. He yanked the door to the ice box open, pulling out a take out box of Chinese food that only god knew how old it was. Apparently Badou had gotten over Haine being in his house, he always did, because as he dug out muddy brown pieces of vegetables (or whatever it was he was eating) with his fingers he spoke through the mouthful of food,

"Land lady's a fucking bitch telling me I've gotta pay the fucking water bill."

Haine snorted, his gaze now returned to the ceiling,

"Where does she get off, making you pay rent?"

"Fuck off, dickhead." Badou snapped, wiping his fingers on his pants. "Goddamn I gotta shit," he stretched, dropping the empty takeout box on the lawn chair in front of him.

Badou said this a lot, and most of the time he didn't actually do anything, Haine assumed at this point it was almost Badou's way of saying 'the weather's nice today, don't you think?', this was one of those times, as Badou was now digging a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket, he lit up and sat on the floor in front of the couch where Haine was still lounging, back to Haine. He exhaled the blue grey smoke into the air, which seemed to hover around him briefly before dissipating entirely, Badou leaned his head back onto the couch behind him, his good eye closed. He flicked the ashes into the carpet with an irritated groan.

"You're going to set your building on fire if you keep that up" Haine mentioned, staring at the ember in the filthy shag carpet.

"Good, then that bitch won't make me pay for the fucking water." Badou smirked, eye still closed.

It was at this time, when there was silence between them, Badou occupied with his nicotine, Haine occupied with the smoldering carpet, was when they both realized, in their own ways, that they really were the only friends they had. They would deny to the grave that they enjoyed each other's company, but Haine spent more than 80% of his day in Badou's second hand smoke, when it came down to it. Badou was annoying, obnoxious, crude and an all around bastard, and yet Haine didn't remove himself from his company. Haine liked being by himself, in fact prior to meeting Badou he spent most of his time alone, and he was all right with that. Hell, he enjoyed it after living in the crowded hell that was the Underground. He didn't have to break into Badou's apartment, he didn't have to be spending most of his nights sleeping on Badou's couch, he could be back in the church living in the pews like he used to. But night after night, he found himself returning.

Badou on the other hand, simply passed it off by Haine's usefulness as a meatsheild, Badou spent many of his PI years being shot at by the mob bosses he was paid to black mail, and he most of the time he didn't have the money to get patched up in the shitty event a bullet actually made contact (mob bosses needed to learn that you need to hire people who know more about a gun than what end makes the 'bang' noise), and even worse than that, getting shot just fucking sucks. If you had someone who could take a full clip of bullets and still shoot you in the skull, yes you'd take advantage of that. In reality, Badou wasn't exactly fulfilled, in some mid life crisis (fuck, he was only 21) old person bullshit. He supposed that it had something to do with Dave, he'd tried so hard as a kid to be like him, most kid brothers are like that. Dave was the only family that he had for the longest time, and he wasn't saying Haine was like family, if anything Haine was that creepy mouth breathing cousin they invite to the family reunion that they make you play nice with while the adults tell you about how he set a dog on fire and they put a metal plate in his skull. But when you're forced to fend for yourself at the age of 8 in a city who's motto might as well be "child prostitution is awesome", shit tends to get tough. Badou didn't like being alone, because being alone meant admitting aspects of his past he would have sooner forgotten. While Haine didn't replace his brother in the slightest, he was a distraction. An albino dickshit distraction.

Really, that was all either of them needed. A distraction. Life wasn't good, it had never been, but they weren't the only ones in that position, no one was happy, and no one got what they wanted. Not in this city. Shit just didn't work out that way. But when that's all you know, that's all you need.

"I thought you had to shit." Haine says casually, rolling over on his side to stare at the side of Badou's head

"Dude," he snaps around, his retarded hippy hair swishing around his shoulders "don't talk about my bowels. That's fucking weird."

Haine rolls his eyes and rolls back onto his back to stare at the cracked stucco ceiling and decides, he's spending the night.


End file.
